


I Was There

by anastasiapullingteeth



Series: Sweet Children [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Child Abuse, Drinking, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Medication, Mentions of Cancer, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2244360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anastasiapullingteeth/pseuds/anastasiapullingteeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because all story has its beginning (?).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Disappearing Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Combeferre have been friends since they were 10. The next step in their friendship is, obviously, forming a rock band.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the first plot I planned for this verse, oh so long ago…

**Hidden Hills, California. 1992 - 1997**

 

Enjolras and Combeferre met in the schoolyard when they were ten years old. Combeferre was the new student, recently transferred from Berkeley, and Enjolras’ popularity wasn’t really good at the moment. Enjolras’ asked if he wanted to share the spot under the big tree (“They won’t hit you with the ball if you stay here”) and Combeferre offered part of his sandwich. They hit it off immediately.

Over the years, they became inseparable friends. Combeferre was there the day Enjolras’ dad finally succumbed to the esophageal cancer that had attacked him for years, and Enjolras comforted Combeferre when the boy discovered his adoption papers in a drawer of the room of whom he’d gotten to call “mom” for over a decade. Neither of them had siblings, so they had found in each other the brother the life had denied to them.

As good friends, they shared everything. There was that one time Combeferre had to wear one of Enjolras’ pants because his own had a big stain after he fell on a puddle; or that other when Enjolras spend the night with Combeferre after the blond’s stepfather, a corrupt politician who had married his mother two years after she widowed, first slapped him and pierced his lip. Combeferre had cleaned the wound and gave him shelter in his house the whole day, until Enjolras’ mother noticed his absence and went to find him at Combeferre’s house.

However, what they liked more about each other was their love for music and the revolutionary ideas that began to flourish in both at an early age. Enjolras believed in the power of music to change the world, and Combeferre agreed with him.

"A band. We should form a band." Said a 14-year-old blond to Combeferre, lying down on the roof of his luxurious house. The two were hiding from Martine, the housekeeper, who at request of Enjolras’ mother, had endeavored to cut the blond’s long curls. They had been hidden there for over an hour, and nobody had found them yet. "Just imagine, ‘Ferre. The two of us on a stage, the audience shouting our names, they all listening to our message. That is the real revolution, ‘Ferre. We’ll make the world listen."

That same summer, Enjolras recovered ‘Red’, the old electric guitar his father had given him before he died. Français, his stepfather, had kept it in the attic, arguing that he was tired of the scandal and that he’d make sure his son were not a failure. Enjolras received a blow after he told the man he could never reach out the heels of his real father. He was sent to his room, warning him that he’d better forget about the damn guitar. His mother didn’t say a word.

He went to Combeferre’s home with ‘Red’ in one hand and smiled when he saw his friend already holding a guitar of his own, sitting in the arm chair that had been placed in the garage. Enjolras taught Combeferre how to play the guitar, since he’d had a few lessons when younger. “Okay, you’re already better than me. Stop bragging.” Enjolras admitted, honestly impressed. At first, they only played covers of bands they felt identified with; Enjolras as lead guitar and Combeferre playing the bass.  _The Ramones, Hüsker Dü,_ and even _The Replacements_  showed up in their repertoire; they had even tried one or two songs by  _The Beatles_ , just because. They hadn’t discussed what kind of genre they’d play, though, but there would be time for that.

Almost a year after they started their small project, Enjolras appeared in the garage with a few sheets of paper on which he had written several lyrics to try them and, with the help of Combeferre, they soon had what officially would be their first song.

_And I’m looking back now_   
_at where I have gone wrong_   
_and why I could not seem to get along._   
_My interests are longing_   
_to break through these chains,_   
_these chains that control_   
_my future’s aims._

"I feel like something’s missing, it hears… empty." Enjolras said after they’d played the song for the third time.

"I think we need a drummer. The machine doesn’t make it feel real."

"A drummer? You know how hard it is to find a drummer?"

"Yes, but what else d’you suggest?"

Enjolras bit the nail of his index finger. They’d have to find someone who not only knew how to play the drums, but also share their vision and understand their purpose. It’d be a titanic task.

 

***

 

**1998 - 1999**

 

Enjolras hopped down the bus, looking around him, trying to locate where he was. He had a piece of paper with the address of  _The Rusty James_ , a punk club in Oakland where fans and musicians gathered for small gigs. Someone had said to him if he wanted to find a drummer, that’d be the better place for it. He’d said to his mother he was spending the weekend at Combeferre’s, what she didn’t know, was his best friend was in Berkeley. He just had to get there, find a drummer, spend the night in an hotel, and go back to Hidden Hills. All in front of his mother’s nose. He glanced at the street before him, took a deep breath, and made his way down the road.

He’d been walking for over two hours and was nowhere near the club. He frowned, inspected the address once again and huffed annoyed. It was getting dark already and he’d have to go back home without a drummer. He turned around, ready to resume his steps, when he bumped into someone a lot bigger than him. He looked up, and found himself in front of a man the size of a mountain. He remained stoic in his place.

"I’m sorry", he mumbled.

"Hey, blondie. Are you lost?" the man asked, blocking his path. "You’re not from around here, are ya? Those fancy clothes give you away."

"I have to go. I’m sorry."

"Oh, no, no. Stay a little longer. Tell me, what'd ya doing here?"

"I-"

"Hey! You’re finally here! It took you long enough, uh?" Enjolras looked above his shoulder to where the voice had come. A young man leaned against the nearest wall, smoking a cigarette. He approached them, smiling brightly at Enjolras, and hugged him around the shoulders when he came closer to him. Enjolras tensed up immediately, but didn’t say a word.

"So you know this clown?" the other man asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Duh. Is my man! Now come on, pal, we gotta things to do." The stranger guided him down the street, keeping his arm around Enjolras’ shoulders. When they were far away from the big guy, he looked behind them and stopped, faced the blond and shook him while talking. "What’s wrong with you?! Like why did you think it was a good idea walking around here alone?!"

"… I don’t know you."

"Oh, yeah, right. Armando here. And you’re…?"

"Enjolras."

"Enjolras… What were you thinking?!"

"I got lost, okay! … I’m looking for  _The Rusty James_? The punk club?"

"Ohhh, right… why?"

"Well, I have a band and we’re looking for a drummer."

"You? You have a band? A  _punk_  band?"

"Yes." The guy snorted and Enjolras thought about going back the way he'd came. He didn't need this, neither had time for it. "What's so funny?" he asked, a hint of anger in his tone.

"Nothing. You just seem... a little bourgeois for a punk band."

"You don't know anything about me!" Enjolras yelled and Armando actually laughed at him.

"Okay, calm down Richie Rich, no need to make a fuss." Enjolras crossed his arms and pulled out his lower lip; Armando made a face, like he was trying to fight back another burst of laughter. "I'll tell you what," he continued. "Today’s your lucky day, man. I happen to be a drummer myself. Wanna try me?"

Armando was, for saying the least, unbelievable. Only a year older than both Enjolras and Combeferre, he was really talented. He’d played for a few bands already, and had made himself a reputation at  _The Rusty James_  as a militant socialist punk-rock boy. Enjolras was fascinated after hearing him play and when Armando proposed some changes to the song they already had, even Combeferre - who was furious with Enjolras for being so careless - had to admit it was a lot better than what they could’ve imagined. He was exactly what they needed.

"So… you wanna join us?"

 _Disappearing Boys_  made his first gig at  _The Rusty James_  on May 30 of 1998 with a full house. Enjolras, Combeferre and Armando impressed the audience with some risked chords and captivated everyone inside the crowed bar with their attitude. Their name spread around like wildfire and before any of them could assimilate it, they were up for a second and a third show. People loved them, there was no doubt about it.

 

***

 

"You’re leaving the band?"

It was less than a year after they played their official first concert, and Armando was abandoning them. They were at Combeferre's garage, packing their things for a weekend at Oakland, where almost everyone who considered themselves punk knew about them, and the drummer had chosen that moment to drop the bomb. He still had the acceptance letter clutched between his flat fingers and was looking at Enjolras with sorrow shadowing his dark eyes.

"Not exactly… I mean, I could come back on summer? Or at any holiday. As long as I don’t have school work… Enjolras, I thought you’d be happy I got in!"

"I- I am! But… Yale? That’s like, at the other end of the world, you can’t… you can’t go… The band, we’re so close to achieve this."

"I’m sorry Enj… This is what I want, this is what I want to do with my life."

"Right, it’s so easy for you to simply abandon the band, to leave us behind-"

"No, Enjolras, is easy for you." Armando retorted, stopping Enjolras ranting only with his voice. "You’re a snobby rich brat who can get in any college of your choice whenever you want it. Like it or not, it takes a single finger snap from your stepfather for you to get anything you want. But it’s no the same for all of us. I’ve worked so hard, so hard to get this scholarship; I want a college career and I’ll work for it, the band be damned."

That same summer, after Armando left for Yale, Enjolras moved out of his stepfather's house for good. With only 17 years old, the blond decided to settle on Oakland, leaving behind not only his family, but the life they'd built for him; he liked to think he was doing it because it was about time, but a voice in the back of his head kept screaming he was trying to show Armando he was wrong about him, that he wasn't who he'd said he was, that  _he_  was enough... Before leaving the house, he promised his mother he'd stay in school, but the band was his priority; Combeferre followed him without hesitation.

The first year was the hardest: they slept at a warehouse behind The Rusty James with barely enough to survive, attending school in the morning and working at the bar during the night. They were both exhausted, but every Saturday, after their shift serving drinks,  _Disappearing Boys_  owned the stage. The lights were blinding and the air, heavy, but Enjolras could only feel the beat of his own heart, pounding fast inside his rib cage like a tiny hummingbird trapped within him. He didn't care how much it'll cost, that few hours singing in front of the crowd, that was worth fighting for.

 

***

 

Courfeyrac came into their lives like a healing balm.

They were still missing a drummer, the position often occupied by a machine or members of other bands that did not doubt of lending them a hand from time to time. It wasn't enough, Enjolras and Combeferre knew it, and as much as Armando wanted to be part of it, his schedule at college made it impossible, so they accepted to go check a guy who apparently was a storm behind the drums - much to Enjolras' dismay, who was still hopeful of their friend's return.

Courfeyrac lived alone with his grandparents outside Laytonville. His neighbor was an old music teacher that used to play the drummers for a local band when he was younger; he'd taught Courfeyrac since he was three years old, and the young boy had featured with his band since he was ten. He had plenty experience in the music business.

"... And we need a replacement drummer. For this weekend."

"You're shitting me." Courfeyrac said, eyes open wide and mouth in a small 'o'. "This weekend. At  _The Rusty James_. You're definitely shitting me right now and it ain't no funny."

"I can assure you we're saying the truth." Combeferre snorted, covering his mouth with the back of his hand; he was enjoying this, the asshole.

"Ohhhhhhhh, I have loads of awesome ideas. We need to change some things, like the clothes, seriously, man, you can't walk around like that-"

"Uhm, we have a drummer, you're just replacing him." Enjolras cut him off, a little bit scared.

Courfeyrac's shoulders sunk down immediately and his smile faltered but he composed himself a second later. "Right, of course. So... do you guys rehearse or are just this naturally awesome?"

Courfeyrac played like his life depended on it. His energy was something that impacted not only on Enjolras and Combeferre, but the audience at large, too. He always had a smile or a warm hug or a joke for everyone around and the fans loved him.

He became then some sort of catalysts; for good, for bad and everything in between.

 

***

 

**Oakland, California - 2000**

 

"Enjolras, he won’t come back, you know it…"

After months of thinking, Enjolras had really started to consider the possibility Armando didn't really came back to Oakland. As far as he knew, Armando was fully committed to their studies and didn't have intention to neglect them in favor of the band. Enjolras missed him terribly, but Combeferre was right, they hadn't even talked in months. He worried at his bottom lip and finally took a decision. “Courf, you've been promoted.”

"To what?", the drummer asked.

"Official member."

"Yo, awesome!" He crushed Enjolras and Combeferre in a hug and kissed their lips loudly. "Lets' celebrate, drinks for everyone at my house!"

There was a reason why Enjolras didn't get drunk very often: his tongue slipped into endless rantings about anything in particular, making arguments that only in his inebriated mind made sense. The night in question, he cried passionately about the non-believers.

"You know what? Fuck it. Fuck what they all think, fuck them. This is important, this can change lives, it changed ours! This is the dawning of the rest of our lives!"

"Fuck yeah!" Courfeyrac yelled, hitting the bottle against the table; Combeferre was smiling lopsided, watching them with amused eyes. "We should like... like... like change our name!"

"Yes, Courf! That exactly! There’s, there’s this thing they say… in Latin… Uhm… Ugh, how is it?! It means seize the day or something…"

"Carpe diem?"

"Yes! Carpe diem!" Enjolras stood up on the table, holding his beer up above his head and spilling some on the floor. He made a toast. "‘Carpe diem, seize the day, make our lives extraordinary!’"

Only a week later, they found themselves in Jean Valjean's office,  _Monsieur Le Maire_  of the music business, with a demo in hand and asking for a chance to show him what they were capable of. The man studied them thoughtfully for about ten minutes before he finally spoke to them.

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"And you're saying you're ready to embark yourselves on the path of music."

"Exactly."

Valjean got to his feet, tucking his hands inside the pockets of his fine suit pants. "Are you aware of what this means? It takes hard work to get as far as you're aspiring to."

"We know. This isn't a game for us, sir, this is a compromise."

The smile they received was sign enough they'd said the right words. "Welcome on board, boys."

 

***

 

**2002 - 2010**

 

They released their first studio album a few months after signing with Valjean.  _409 in Your Coffeemaker_ , a set of songs they recorded for old EP's plus a few new ones, became famous very quickly in the punk scene of the bay area. They were miraculously in school at par with their music career, except for Courf, who'd abandoned studies long ago. By the time  _Coming Clean_ , their second album, hit the record stores two years later, it became obvious they had to decide between college and the band.

"The album had an excellent reception, and the label is ready to offer you a deal." Valjean said from behind his desk. "But they have a condition."

"I'm so not gonna shave my head again."

"No, Courfeyrac... They want you boys to go on tour around the country."

"A... tour?"

"I know it's difficult for you considering you're still on school, but the label isn't satisfied with a few concerts every two weekends. They affirm it's not enough to consider you a good bet, but-"

"We'll leave the school." Enjolras stated without even blinking. "If that's what's holding them back, we'll go on tour. No problem"

Valjean focused his attention on Combeferre who hadn't said a word. The bassist looked at him, then Courfeyrac and finally Enjolras, and sighed in deeply. "Count me in," he mumbled. He loved college, but this was also important to him and had always made it clear he was ready for anything.

Under Valjean's wing their fame became inevitable. Their songs were played on the radio, every independent record store got copies of their albums and his name was on everyone's lips, to the point where they were banned to play at  _The Rusty James_  after their imminent success, but that didn't stop them to make a surprise concert there years later, between the euphoria of their first worldwide tour.

Some thought they were traitors, that they'd sold their souls to the highest bidder in exchange of a trading contract and insane amounts of money, but the fans, the real fans knew better. They were true to themselves, to their music and the people that moved them to sing against what was wrong; a message from a fan saying how much they've done for them and how much their music had inspired them was enough to push them to keep moving forward.

 

***

 

They encountered Marius almost five years later.

He'd met Courfeyrac on a Café during a tour, where Marius had a small presentation every night to gain some money. He played an acoustic guitar and wore dress shirts and ugly sweaters, but his voice and undeniable talent caught the drummer's attention. Courfeyrac exchanged a few words and a coffee with him and soon fell in love with the awkward boy; he practically begged Enjolras and Combeferre to let him hang out with them.

Enjolras was a little bit wary at first; Pontmercy didn't seem the kind of guy who fit their ideals, he was way too clean for them and it was Enjolras speaking. After he hurt his right hand during a pillow fight, however, Marius was the one to help, substituting him at the guitar while Enjolras sang. Once he was fully recovered, they'd become accustomed to have Marius around so they decided to keep him. Enjolras actually liked him and had to say so at loud when Marius scared eyes locked with his own.

 

***

 

Feuilly was the last to join the band.

Enjolras was on an experimental phase, adding different instruments to the guitar, bass and drummer that was their usual formula; a new song was hunting his mind but he needed a saxophone, a trumpet and keyboards... which neither of them had the slightest idea of how to play. He'd become desperate, refusing to abandon the - according to him - brilliant idea in order to move forward with their album. When he was about to command them to learn one of the three instruments from a day to the next, Marius finally spoke up.

"We really don't have to do that," he said, regretting it immediately after at seeing Enjolras' angry glare.

Courfeyrac lifted his head from the table where he was trying to make a joint with lettuce and foil and asked hopeful "We don't?!"

"Uh... no. I mean, I know this guy- well, I don't technically know him, I've just seen him a couple of times and I doubt he knows who I am-"

"Pontmercy..."

"Sorry. Anyway, he can play like every instrument know by men and probably a few ones I'm pretty sure he invented himself. I think... I think you could talk to him? I've heard he's really nice..."

It turned out Feuilly was indeed pretty nice. They went to see him at the factory he worked at and he received them during his lunch break. He was a modest fan maker, but after a few word with him, Enjolras saw so much more in him: he was a true musician, a working class hero, the face of the people  _Carpe Diem_  sang about. And he was ready to play with them.

Both Feuilly and Marius became permanent members of  _Carpe Diem_  in 2010, making it official not long after with the release of their sixth studio album,  _99 Revolutions_.

Enjolras felt excited about that album: he was sure greater things were about to come.


	2. Dirty Rotten Bastards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire and Jehan meet someone in a concert. Strangers one second, best friends the next.

**Minneapolis, Minnesota - 2004**

 

When Grantaire lifted his eyes, he found himself immediately blinded by the intense sunlight. There was not a single cloud on the sky, the blue almost matching the eyes of the man on stage, playing his red guitar as if his life depended on it, screaming his belief into the microphone in front of him. Grantaire couldn't believe his luck, because it could only be that, luck, that he were standing in the middle of a big crowd, in the presence of the one that, in a way he couldn't really explain, had saved his life.

He laughed at seeing Jehan jumping up and down next to him, his arms raised above his head and copper hair flowing around him. He was so happy, they both were, like hadn't been in a long time. They were back at the game, Grantaire could feel it, and this concert was a watershed, a before and after of his shitty life. And he was even more sure when the marble god on stage looked directly at him.

Yes, this was definitely the dawning of the rest of their lives.

A big man with broad shoulders bumped into him while dancing with as much enthusiasm as Jehan. He had body paint all over his brown skin, mixing perfectly with the tattoos on his arms. Grantaire thought it was better not to fight the guy; he was a lot taller than him… and he’d come there to have fun, anyway, not to find a problem. When the act happened a second time, Grantaire had to bite his tongue to stop himself from making a big, big mistake.

"Damn, sorry, man," the guy shouted close to his ear, in an attempt to make his voice audible above the music. "Didn’t see you there."

"Don’t sweat it."

"What?"

"I say don’t sweat it!"

"Oh, right. The name’s Bahorel, who’re you?"

"Grantaire."

"And I’m Jehan," said the younger man, pushing Grantaire away and standing close to Bahorel. "Where did you get the paint?" he asked, pointing at the guy’s chest.

"A girl over there is doing it!" Bahorel answered happily, pointing at somewhere out of the mass of people. "I can take you there if you want!"

Jehan turned around to see Grantaire with manipulative puppy-eyes. They had a really good spot on the front and Grantaire feared they could miss it. But, to be completely honest, he was curious. The concert had just barely begun, anyway, so he nodded in Bahorel’s direction, letting himself being dragged by an over-excited Jehan. Who knew, maybe the girl would let him try; it’d been a while since the last time he attempted to do art with paint.

 

~~~

 

"Oh, god. I want to throw up. Oh my god." Grantaire whined, waiting in line to get the autograph of his idols scribbled on his copy of their album. He squeezed Jehan’s hand between his own, ignoring the pained expression on his friend’s face. "If you see me acting like a weirdo, promise me you’ll punch me," he begged.

"Calm down, you’ll be fine."

"You don’t k-" Grantaire was about to complain, when he noticed there was just two guys in front of them. He grabbed Jehan’s shoulders and hid behind him. "Holy fuck, we’re almost there! You’ll go first."

Jehan made his way along the table where _Carpe Diem_ was sitting at. He got a smile from Combeferre, a flirty wink from Courfeyrac and a small nod from Enjolras, after the boy talked excitedly about his favorite song and how it had helped him feel comfortable with himself. Grantaire saw all this a few steps away with a smile, waiting his turn to hand his copy of _Coming Clean_ to the vocalist. But once he stood in front of him, he lost his cool the second he saw his face from up close.

"Oh, hi, hi," Enjolras said, holding the album from one end.

"Hi… I can’t believe is you. I mean, of course is you, but I’m here and you’re here and you’ve no idea what you’ve done for me. I mean, of course you don’t, I mean you don’t know me, but- sorry, I’m babbling. I’m so sorry."

"What’s your name?"

"Right, uhm, Grantaire" he answered, feeling the embarrassing warmth spreading throughout his face. "I’m Grantaire."

"That’s a nice name."

They stared at each other for a few seconds, until Combeferre, who was sitting next to Enjolras, nudged him at his ribs. “Yeah, and you’re supposed to sign his album, man”, he said, fighting back a chuckle.

"Oh yes, sorry. Here. Thank you so much for coming, Grantaire."

"You fucking rule, dude. Thank you."

Grantaire practically ran up to Jehan, but was stopped by someone calling his name. He turned around and saw Enjolras approaching him, and adorable smile bowing his perfect lips. Everyone at the table, including a few fans standing in front of the seat Enjolras occupied seconds before, were looking at them. Grantaire caught Courfeyrac craning his neck to have a better view above Combeferre's head, until the aforementioned man pulled him down by the shirt and distracted the audience by talking to them. Grantaire looked around him, unsure. Was he dreaming?

"Hey, wait!" Enjolras said, playing with something in his hand. "Do you… do you a have a backstage pass? For later?"

"No, we didn't-"

"Here, take this one." He handed him the paper he’d been playing with. It was in fact a backstage pass for the meet and greet with the band. Grantaire tried to give it back, speechless, but Enjolras didn’t accept it. "See you later, okay? See ya." And with that said, he went back to sign autographs.

Grantaire was motionless were he stood.  _May I waste your time too?_

"Oh my god, he gave you a pass!" At some point, Jehan had come next to him and was now examining the pass he’d snatched away from his trembling fingers. "… Like, literally just one. Rude," he said, pouting.

Grantaire finally looked at him, biting his lips. “I should give you this, we’re here for your birthday and-“

"What? No! He wants to see you. Not me, you!"

He rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t want to see me. He probably took pity of me, I totally embarrassed myself back there. Poor pathetic fan, needs something to light his day up.”

"Don’t say that. You’re going back that stage and enjoy the moment, okay? I’ll wait for you out here, then we’ll go together home and you’re gonna tell me everything in detail, that’s it."

"Would you be okay on your own?"

"Oh, I won’t be alone. I just saw Bahorel over there." Jehan assured him, winking an eye. Grantaire shook his head, smiling widely.

 

~~~

 

"Say again, what is he doing here?" Grantaire asked that night while watching Bahorel gobbling the contents of their fridge. He’d already finished with the leftover pizza and was now declaring his love to the six pack he’d found at the back. Jehan looked at him with dreamy eyes, like he’d rescued a lost puppy.

“You’re still dizzy by those kisses, aren’t you?” he mocked him, smiling sideways.

"Shut up… No, really, why’s he here?"

"He lives at the other end of the world, he’s staying with us."

"… Okay."

Grantaire’s wariness lasted less than ten minutes. After they ordered more pizza and Bahorel thanked them for their hospitality with a few joints, the last of his worries fled out of the window. Bahorel told them about their childhood, about his fights in and out of the communal ring at his hometown, about his love for music and how he dreamed of forming his own punk band.

"Man, they’re- they’re wicked, dude. Like, that’s so punk rock, we haven’t had guys like them in years. Happens like once in a century… Hey, we could totally be like them!"

"In your dreams."

"Roll, roll, roll a joint, twist it at the end, light it up, take a puff, pass it to your friend", Jehan sang next to him, apparently unaware of the conversation as he examined the joint from an unnecessary proximity.

"No! Think about it! You play the guitar, I play the drums… Jehan could play the bass, we’re setup, man!"

"But… a band?" Grantaire considered it. What wouldn't he do for a chance to play music, to be… to be like Enjolras. That would never happen, no matter how hard he tried, but maybe… maybe if he showed him he was capable of… No, that was stupid. He glanced at his phone briefly and shook his head. What had happened backstage had been luck, nothing more than fan service, he shouldn't get his hopes up on something that meant less than shit to Enjolras. "Forget it, it won’t happen."

"We don’t have anything to lose." Jehan said, patting his knee. "Why don’t we give it a shot?"

 

———————————————-

 

**2005 – 2007**

 

It turned out that, rather than lose something, they won a lot more.

A year after, when they had rehearsed a few songs - _Carpe Diem_ ’s covers, needless to say - and Jehan had mastered the bass, Grantaire got a chance to play with his band at the Corinth, the bar where he worked at, once a week on his day off. Bahorel had moved to their apartment just in time to bask in their accelerated fame. People started to ask about them almost immediately, they required original material, and spread the news about this happy-punk, independent band around. They named themselves _Dirty Rotten Bastards_ because, as Grantaire had said, they were exactly that.

"Good news, guys", said Bahorel coming inside the back room. It was eight months after they started playing at the bar and a particularly big crowd had gathered outside to see them. Jehan hopped down of his seat, the bass hanging from his shoulder balancing gracefully behind him; Grantaire remained sitting, he was trying to catch his breath again. "Word on the street says Thénardier is out there. I know, this is heavy, but we’re ready for him, aren’t we? Let’s show him how dirty and rotten these bastards are!"

"Would you shut up?" Grantaire grunted, keeping his voice low, but incapable of controlling the trembling. "Like he’s gonna be interested in us."

"Well, he’s here, isn’t he? That has to mean something."

Grantaire rolled his eyes; he didn't even have the energy to argue.

Bahorel had gotten the idea that signing with a manager was the obvious next step. They were well-known by then, and had managed to write a few songs of their own that the audience loved with a passion. Bahorel assured that that was EP material right there, and that no manager around would be able to resist. Grantaire didn't think that, especially when Bahorel's first choice was Thénardier, _The Wolf of Montfermeil_ , nothing less than the most ambitious, swindler, and therefore, successful man in the industry. They wouldn't pass the test, Grantaire was sure, and they’d have to face the reality with a deafening bang.

He breathed in deeply and swallowed the sixth - or was it eighth? - glass of rum of the night. If he was really doing this, he’d need it.

 

~~~

 

"Uhm, no offense but… Aren’t you like… twelve?" Bahorel trailed off.

They were again in the back room at the Corinth after an apparently successful night. A girl with long, dark hair had followed them there, arguing she was Thénardier, the band manager. Grantaire, as both Jehan and Bahorel, had stared at her, speechless. She wasn't what they were expecting and her age… She didn't look at all like a band manager. She was probably a year or two younger than Jehan.

"I’ve been in charge of my father’s business for two years without a single complaint, isn't that enough for you?" she said with a blank expression. She wasn't surprised by Bahorel comment and that made them think he hadn't been the first to pointing out such thing. They could only imagine all the shit she'd had to deal with in the scene.

"It is, yeah, sorry."

The girl, whose name was Éponine, smiled pleased. Then looked at them up and down with close scrutiny, narrowing her eyes and nodding to herself once in a while. “Okay,” she said. "If you want me to be your manager, you gotta add two other members to your band."

"Eh? Why's that?"

"There's a lot of bands like you out there. Ever since Carpe Diem jumped on the scene, kids all around the country suddenly wanted to play music. You're not any different. So, if you wanna hit it big time, you gotta add two other members to your band."

"… That’s not really what we want here."

"Oh, so that’s that? You want to be like the indie band? Well, you don’t need me to do that. Keep playing in dirty bars and warehouses. But if you want a real chance out there, you have to play by my rules. You are a little out of date already, at least those kids have the cuteness factor, you have absolutely no chance unless you listen to me. Two other members and you have a contract."

That said, Éponine left the room after handing them a card with her number. "Call me when you're ready," she'd said, without giving room for an answer from the men.

"Holy shit, she’s fucking scary." Bahorel pointed out when the door closed shut.

"I thought she would tear our heads off!"

"Where are we gonna find two guys to play with us?"

"We'll paste an announcement outside the bar. It can't be that hard to find someone."

But that was easier to say than do. Five months passed in constant auditions, all kind of musicians, some of them really talented, but all was unsuccessful. Part of the problem was, they weren't sure what they were looking for in the first place. Jehan said they'd know when they see it; no one had been the right one so far.

Jehan fell on the bed with a thud and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hand. Neither he nor Grantaire made an attempt to answer the phone. "We're screwed," he mumbled, tired.

"Actually… I think I have someone." Bahorel said, hanging up.

"Do you?"

"Yup, two guys here in Minnesota."

Grantaire and Jehan exchanged a look. “Why didn't you tell us about them before?!”

"Because I had no clue where they were until now? A friend of mine just gave me their address."

 

~~~

 

Bahorel took them to a small house in the suburbs of the center of Burnsville. It was unbelievable early when they knocked on the white door and Grantaire wouldn't be mad if the owner decided to kick their asses for disturbing them at such inglorious hour. He was beyond surprised when the person opening the door for them was a thin girl, of approximately the same age than Jehan, and untamed dark hair framing her face. She was still on her pajamas, but her eyes were wide open and she didn't look tired at all. She smiled, apparently recognizing Bahorel.

“‘Rel! It’s so nice to see you!”

"Hey, baby. How you doing?"

"Great, I’m almost off to school, so better talk fast."

"We need to talk with your boyfriends."

Both Grantaire and Jehan frowned. They thought they’d heard wrong of course, there was no way Bahorel had said ‘boyfriends’, plural, but the girl’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ in realization, either because she suspected what Bahorel wanted or because, until then, she seemed to notice he hadn’t come alone. Her eyes focused on Grantaire and Jehan as she smiled waving a hand.

"Hey! I remember you!" she said, pointing a long finger in Grantaire’s general direction. "We met at that concert like three years ago! You stole my job for about twenty minutes."

"… Did I?"

"Yeah! And I know you, too!" she said to Jehan, who smiled back.

"… Musichetta, right? The body-paint girl!"

"Yes! How could I forget about you? It doesn’t happen every day you met someone who can recite Segismundo’s soliloquy from memory while their friend is covering their body with paint."

"Nerd," Bahorel whispered, and both the girl and Jehan laughed. At that point, Grantaire was just standing there, don’t understanding anything.

"Anyway, you're here to talk to Joly and Bossuet then?" Oh. So they hadn't heard wrong… "They won’t be back 'til late afternoon, wanna wait them up inside?"

Musichetta let them in and gave her permission to use the house to wait until she and her boyfriends were back. Once they were alone, Grantaire and Jehan questioned the drummer. Bahorel told them he and Musichetta had fooled around when she was in high school, but it hadn't lasted. He met her boyfriends time later and they all were good friends.

They lost track of time after the first three hours waiting. Jehan fell asleep on the couch and Bahorel decided to rummage inside the fridge. Grantaire was playing the guitar on the staircase, so he missed the lock of the front door being open. What he did notice was the young, bald man walking through it and the frown he directed at him. They stared at each other for several seconds, without uttering a word.

"I was so sure this was my house," the man said.

"I think it still is?"

"Are you robbing me?"

"No?"

After that first awkward meeting, the man introduced himself as Bossuet. Another hour passed before Joly arrived with Musichetta, and once everybody had settled on the living room, Grantaire explained the situation. They let him tell the story until the end, just to shake their heads and refuse the invitation. But they were desperate, they had to try a little more before accepting defeat.

"Look, just give us a concert. That's all we ask for. If you don't like it, we'll let you go without resentment, I promise. Please."

"You have to believe we want to help you, but we both play the guitar and you already had one of those. You really don’t need us."

"I think you could make it work, though." Musichetta chimed in, sitting on the armrest behind Joly.

"How?"

"You can work with two guitars. And if Grantaire only sings…"

"Yeah, that could actually do it."

 

~~~

 

"Okay, there's no point. I can't play that bridge. It's impossible!"

"Come on, I do it all the time-"

"Yes, because you wrote it, Beethoven" said Joly, glaring at Grantaire. They’d been trying for five days and nothing worked.

"That doesn’t make sense, Beethoven played the piano…"

"Shut up, Bossuet… We have to face it, Grantaire has to play that one."

"Maybe we could choose another song?" Grantaire offered, resting his chin on the top of the hand that held the mic stand.

"That one’s our best song, though."

"Yeah, but we can’t have a band with three guitars…"

"Does any of you can play any other instruments?"

"I used to have piano lessons… Maybe I could play the keyboards?" Jehan offered.

"And how would that help?"

"Well, learning to play the bass when you already know how to play the guitar can't be that hard, that's how I did it. Either Bossuet or Joly could take my place while I play the keyboards?"

"Jehan actually has a point there."

"You don’t have to do it, JP."

"This is for the band, right?"

 

~~~

 

"Okay, Éponine is out there and when she sees how awesome we are, she'll sign the contract."

And she did, after they promised they would change the band's name to something more appropriate. It wasn't a surprise that Grantaire picked something he'd read on the back of a bottle of Root Beer.

 

———————————————

 

**2008 - 2011**

 

Éponine knew very well what she was doing. In less than six months, she'd gotten _Sassafras Roots_ a presentation almost every week. Their first studio album, _Burnout_ , saw the light in 2009 and the audience crowded the record stores to get it. Being the center of attention completely out of nowhere was hard for everyone, especially Grantaire, who couldn't face it that well at the begging. His alcoholism and abuse of anxiolytics got severe and, after a big fight with Éponine, he was forced to go to rehab.

"You are the one that decides what we're going to wear, how we're gonna act and talk. We're just a pre-made boy band dressed up like little punk rockers!" Grantaire had shouted in a hotel room as he rubbed his blood-shot eyes.

Éponine had remained stoic in front of him, sighing deeply to control her voice. "No, you're not. And I don't control you. I just take advantage of something you already have in you: attitude."

But Grantaire wasn't at all right. If anything, Éponine had respected their music. She had not had anything against to whatever they wrote and that was the reason why Grantaire accepted everything else. When _Suffocate_ , the second single, hit the radio, they experienced something they'd thought they never would: the people at their concerts, mostly teenagers, knew and sang the lyrics by heart.

Two years later, when they released their second material, they were offered their first national tour. _Do da da_ , an album rated by the media as both musically genius and completely ridiculous for its lyrics that went from emotionally deep to apparently senseless, was an immediate success. Grantaire knew it wasn't just the catchy songs, it went deeper than that. He recognized that look on their fans, after all; it was the same he’d had the first time he saw _Carpe Diem_ in concert. A weird mixture between excitement, pure joy, and gratitude. And they’d done it. They’d put it in those people’s faces.

If only he could show Enjolras what he’d become…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That scene there with Enjolras has no justification at all but bear with me, was too cute to resist.


End file.
